Why I Care About Football.

Many of you will know by now that my beloved Hawks won the Grand Final today.

Many of you won’t care. I’ve read all about how much you don’t care, all over social media. And, at the risk of sounding like all of the Friends in “The One Where Everybody Finds Out” (“They don’t know that we know they know we know …”), I don’t care that you don’t care.

Yes, lots of money gets spent on sport, at the expense of other sectors that need it. Yes, its stars are idol-worshipped, at the expense of those who probably deserve more recognition.

But my grandfather, who I never met, but who I adore – he went for the Hawks. Back before they were the “Tasmanian” team. Back when the Burnie Dockers were called the Hawks too. And my precious father goes for the Hawks, too. And I was raised a Hawks fan. And that means something to me, because family and history mean something to me.

And today, as the final siren sounded, my dad called me. It was the first thing he thought to do, and I would have called him if he hadn’t called me. That means something. It’s something we share and I love it.

And Tiger? Well, today Tiger watched television for the second time in her short life, and it was to watch the Hawks play again in a Grand Final. And that means something to me, too. If her Poppy has anything to do with it, she will be a little Hawk as well. If she’s anything like her Auntie Rachel, she’ll pick whatever team she wants to barrack for, because she likes the colours or (in the case of Rachel and Tony Modra), because of a particularly spunky player.

I hope she’s a Hawk, though. Because family and history matter.

Today, Tiger alternated between being fascinated by the TV and excited at Mummy’s excitement, and kicking her own little Hawthorn ball around the floor. She probably won’t watch telly again for another year. Hopefully the Hawkies will be on the screen again, because she’ll understand it more at two-and-a-bit.